MRS. WARD'S TRUMP CARD
Kowlaski was a large, fat, good-natured blackguard of a man, quite
without principle. He came from some remote village in the Balkans and
was of Jewish birth. In his early days he arrived in London penniless
and strove to make a living by selling toys in the street. Then he
turned scene-shifter at a music-hall, and while thus engaged educated
himself to write and read and to speak English with wonderful fluency.
Also he saved money and speculated in a small way, having the
marvelous Hebrew instinct of picking out lucrative ventures. Shortly
he became stage manager. Then he found a clever woman who sang badly
and acted wonderfully. Kowlaski advertised her into a success and she
proved grateful. There is no need to trace his steady rise; but one
thing led to another until he became proprietor of the very music-hall
which had witnessed his humble beginning.
When he first set eyes on Lola he had guessed that it would pay to
invest money in her. The success of the ballet proved that Kowlaski
was right as usual, and he smiled his oily smile when he saw the
crowded houses and looked over the receipts. The ballet would run for
more than a year. He was sure of that, and set about some other
business now that the music-hall was flourishing. It was at this point
that Lola demanded a week's holiday. Kowlaski whimpered. He usually
did so to make people think he was weak. But under his apparent
weakness he was possessed of an iron strength.
Having great experience of women he thought to control Lola, but she,
being gifted with a superlative temper, laughed in his face. All his
cleverness could not make her swerve from the point. "I want a week to
myself," she said doggedly. They were talking in French, as Kowlaski
could swear more easily in that tongue and wanted freedom of speech.
"But, my dear child--" Kowlaski was always paternal--"it will not do.
You are the draw, and if you go out of the bill the people will not
come to my house."
"I don't care. I want a week, and a week I will have."
"Why do you wish for this week?"
"That's my business."
Kowlaski tried temper. "If you go, you leave my theater once and for
all the time."
"Pschutt!" said Lola, snapping her fingers in his dismayed face. "I
draw, and you are in no hurry to get rid of me."
Kowlaski tried reproaches. "If you were a grateful woman----"
"Ah, bah! What of gratitude? You wanted me or would you have seen me
die in the gutter."
Kowlaski began to whimper. "You will ruin me, my dear!"
"It would serve you right if I did. You have ruined others in your
time. Don't you think I know you? Come--" she rapped on the table--"I
want the week. To-morrow and till next Wednesday I'm out of the bill."
"But it cannot be done."
"It must be. I want it to be done."
Kowlaski tried bribing. "I will raise your salary if you stay!"
"Oh, la, la, la, la! I am quite pleased with what I get. If I wished
my salary raised I should have it raised. I go for a week."
In the face of this obstinacy Kowlaski gave in. But first of all he
tried threats, and Lola threatened to throw a chair at him. He finally
agreed that she should have her week, and Lola walked out of the
office without thanking him. That was the last he saw of her for seven
days.
He made the most of her absence, declaring that she had been called
away to nurse a dying mother and would reappear with a broken heart to
keep her engagements with the public. Bawdsey saw this notice.
It was the first he had heard of Lola's escapade, and he went at once
to her rooms in Bloomsbury to ask where she was going. Lola had
already gone, and, according to the landlady, had left no information
as to her whereabouts.
"Did she take a box?" asked Bawdsey.
"A small box. She went away in a cab."
"Where did she tell the cabman to drive to?"
"To Oxford Street."
Bawdsey was disappointed. He saw that Lola had taken every precaution
to hide her trail, and that there was not much chance of finding her.
However, he went to see Kowlaski. The manager began to talk of the
dying mother, and Bawdsey shut him up.
"Rubbish! That's for the public. I want to know where she is.
"My dear, I do not know," said Kowlaski, and for the first time in his
wicked old life he told the truth.
Not to be beaten, Bawdsey sought out George Brendon. But George was as
ignorant as the manager and the landlady. "I haven't the slightest
idea," he said, when Bawdsey asked; "and, to tell you the truth, I
don't see why you should try to find out."
"I want to know."
"That is apparent on the face of it. But you are not engaged to marry
her, are you, Mr. Bawdsey?"
"No such luck," replied the detective, with a dismal face.
"Then I don't see what right you have to control her movements."
"Did she write and tell you where she was going?"
"No, and if she had done so I should not tell you," replied George,
annoyed by the man's persistence.
"You may as well be civil to me, Mr. Brendon; you know that I am your
friend."
"Oh, I've heard all that before! But people who talk much of
friendship and gratitude are generally humbugs."
"I am not," said Bawdsey, quietly. "See here, Mr. Brendon, Lola is in
love with you----"
"That's my business. Leave it alone."
Bawdsey took up his hat. "Oh, very well! If you will not be civil I
cannot help you to learn who killed your father."
"What!" George sprang from the table at which he was writing and
seized the man's arm. "Do you know that?"
"Gently, Mr. Brendon. No, I do not know, but----"
"Then what do you mean by saying----"
"We had better have a chat," said Bawdsey, and sat down. "But I wish
to know where I stand. Lola loves you. Do you love her?"
"No," said Brendon, seeing that he would have to humor the man. "I am
engaged to marry Miss Ward."
"Will you help me to marry Lola?"
"Willingly--though, to tell you the truth, I know very little about
you, and to make that girl marry you----"
"Oh, Lola can look after herself, Mr. Brendon. If she becomes my wife
she will have the upper hand. But I am so deeply in love with her that
I am willing to play second fiddle. Can't you dispossess her of this
infatuation for you?"
George shook his head and groaned. "No. She won't listen to reason."
"Well," drawled Bawdsey, recurring to his American accent, "I don't
blame her for that. She is in love, and love listens to no one and
nothing. I wouldn't listen to reason, either, if it entailed giving up
Lola."
"See here, Bawdsey, if you can persuade this woman to get over her
liking for me, and to marry you, I shall be delighted. I do not know
where she is just now, but it is my impression that she has gone away
because she is afraid of me."
"Afraid of you? Oh, that's absurd!"
"No, it isn't. The other morning she saw Miss Ward, and there was a
scene in the Park."
Bawdsey hung his red head. "I fear that is my fault," he confessed. "I
pointed out Miss Ward to Lola, and----"
"And it was I who foolishly mentioned that Miss Ward sometimes took a
walk in the morning--in the Park."
"Oh," said Bawdsey, "I mentioned that also."
"Did you wish Lola to see Miss Ward?" asked George, angrily.
"No. Nor did I intend to say anything about the walking in the early
morning. I simply pointed her out in the box to Lola, so that Lola
might see there was no chance of your marrying her."
"As if any woman would accept such an excuse," said Brendon,
contemptuously. "Then she questioned you about the walk?"
"Yes. She mentioned something about what you had told her, and I was
rather free with my tongue. I am not usually," said Bawdsey,
penitently, "but there's something about Lola that makes me behave
like a child. I'm wax in her hands. So she saw Miss Ward?"
"Yes. And she knows that I am angry. Of course Miss Ward sent to tell
me at once, and I called on Lola to give her a talking to, but she was
gone when I arrived."
"Would you have spoken harshly to her?"
"Certainly. She had no right to trouble Miss Ward. But now you know
why I think she has left town. In a week she will come back thinking
my anger is at an end."
"And will it be?" asked Bawdsey, doubtfully.
"It is at an end now. I am quite content not to see Lola again so long
as she leaves Miss Ward alone."
"I will try and keep her away," said the detective, "but I have very
little influence with her."
"Tell her I am angry and will be still more angry if she does not keep
away from Curzon Street. Well, we have discussed this matter. I now
want to hear what you meant by your reference to my father. Do you
know who killed him?"
Bawdsey shook his head. "I can't say for certain, but I can tell you
who might know."
"Who is that?"
"Mr. Roger Ireland."
George looked astonished. "But that is ridiculous," he said. "Mr.
Ireland told me that he did not know."
"Oh, I don't say that he knows for certain. But he is better
acquainted with the matter than you think."
"How did you come to know Mr. Ireland?"
"He called to see Miss Bull, and I dropped across him."
"How did you get talking of the case?"
"Well, you see," said Bawdsey, easily, "we naturally talked of Mrs.
Jersey, and one thing led to another until I discovered that Ireland
had been in San Remo when your father was murdered. I wished to find
out who killed him, so I questioned Mr. Ireland."
"Why do you wish to know who killed my father?" asked George.
"Because I think that the murder of Mrs. Jersey is connected with that
crime. See here--" Bawdsey cleared his throat--"Mrs. Jersey was in San
Remo at the time of the death----"
"How do you know that?"
"Don't I tell you I questioned Mr. Ireland?"
George looked sharply at the detective. "What magic did you use to
make him talk? Mr. Ireland knows how to hold his tongue."
"Well, when he found that I was looking after the case of Mrs. Jersey
(and I made no secret of that) he was good enough to tell me all he
knew. He thought, as I did, that the murder in San Remo was connected
with the crime of Amelia Square."
"Oh!" George wasn't at all satisfied, as he could not conceive how
Bawdsey had induced Ireland to talk. However, he thought it wise to
say no more, as he did not wish to make Bawdsey angry and thus run a
chance of losing his explanation. "Go on."
"There is nothing more to say," said Bawdsey, rising. "Mr. Ireland
declined to tell me who he thought was guilty, but he hinted that he
had seen the lady in the blue domino unmasked."
"Did he recognize her?"
"I think he did, but he assured me that he could not be sure, and that
he had not seen the lady again."
"Then he did know the face?"
Bawdsey's face assumed an impenetrable expression. "I can only refer
you to Mr. Ireland," he said; "and as to Lola----"
"Oh, she'll turn up again," said Brendon, irritably. "Don't worry me
about Lola. I wish you would marry her and take her back to your
native land."
"What land am I native of, Mr. Brendon?" asked Bawdsey, calmly.
"America, I understand. You hinted as much when we met."
Bawdsey shook his head. "I am as English as you are," he declared.
"Well," said Brendon, with a shrug, "I thought as much. Your accent
fails at times. You are not a good actor, Bawdsey."
"I may be a better actor than you think, Mr. Brendon."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Never you mind, sir. I can hold my tongue when it suits me, and on
this occasion it does suit me. But remember, Mr. Brendon, that
whatever happens you have a friend in me."
"What is going to happen?"
Bawdsey shook his head solemnly. "One never knows. We are not out of
the wood yet, Mr. Brendon."
"Are you referring to my father's murder?"
"And to Mrs. Jersey's. I have my suspicions, and--well, there's
nothing more to be said. When I am certain I shall let you know."
"You have your suspicions, then?"
"Yes. But I shall not impart them to any one--not even to you."
"One moment, Bawdsey," said Brendon, as the man had his hand on the
door. "Do you suspect Miss Bull?"
"Why should I suspect her?" asked the detective, in surprise.
"Because she was not on good terms with Mrs. Jersey, and you have
taken up your abode in the house----"
"To watch her, you would say. Well, maybe," rejoined the man,
composedly. "I know what I know, and when I am more certain of what I
know, sir----" He nodded. "Good-day," he said, and went abruptly.
It struck George that Bawdsey was a most mysterious person and knew
far more about the San Remo murder than Derrington could have told
him. Still, it was possible that Derrington had unbosomed himself to
Bawdsey, and it was necessary to do so if he wanted the murder of Mrs.
Jersey cleared up. And Derrington, from his refusal to admit that he
was at the house on the night and about the time the crime was
committed, seemed to knew something that might lead to the detection
of the assassin.
"Humph," said George to himself when alone, "I have a great mind to go
round and see that old man. It seems to me that Bawdsey is trying to
serve two masters. It is impossible that my grandfather can know
the truth. Yet, going by his height and figure, and that sable
claret-colored coat, he was certainly in the house on the night in
question. But it's none of my business."
He sat down again to his work and tried to interest himself in the
chapter he was writing. But it was all in vain. Bawdsey's speech and
Bawdsey's manner, and a conviction that the man was playing his
grandfather false, kept recurring to his mind. After an hour's futile
work he threw down the pen in despair and went out to call on
Derrington.
On arriving at St. Giles Square he saw a carriage at the door of the
mansion. On asking for Lord Derrington, George was informed that his
lordship was engaged with Mrs. Ward and could see no one. Brendon
turned away, wondering that he had not recognized the carriage, and he
was still more vexed with himself when Dorothy put her head out of the
brougham and called to him.
"My dearest," he said softly, so that the coachman and footman might
not hear, "this is an unexpected pleasure. Why are you not inside?"
"My mother wished to see Lord Derrington alone," replied Dorothy. "I
am waiting till she comes out. She has been with him for half an hour.
I don't know what they are talking about."
It was at this moment that a message was brought out of the house from
Mrs. Ward saying that her daughter could drive home as she would not
be disengaged for another hour. Dorothy looked puzzled. "I can't
understand," she said; "there is something wrong with my mother. Lord
Derrington came to see her one day and she has been upset ever since."
George shook his head. He suspected Mrs. Ward of knowing more than she
chose to confess, and based his suspicions on the fact of the yellow
holly which she had given to Dorothy to present to him. She had made
her daughter a cat's-paw, but why she should wish to startle Mrs.
Jersey with a reminder of the San Remo murder was a thing George could
not understand. Meanwhile, he kept these suspicions to himself and
made some excuse. "Oh, Mrs. Ward and my grandfather are probably
talking over my iniquities," he said easily. "But I don't see why I
should not take advantage of this chance."
"What do you mean, George?" asked Dorothy with a becoming blush.
"Well, here is the brougham, and here you are. Why shouldn't we drive
around the Park before you go home?"
"My mother will be angry," said Dorothy, hesitating. Then she blushed
again. "But I shall brave her anger. We have much to talk about, as I
wish to speak of Lola Velez."
"Dorothy, you surely do not think----"
"No, no! But I want to ask you a few questions. I believe she is mad,
George. Get in and we will drive round the Park."
The order was given, George seated himself beside his divinity, and
they drove away for a pleasant hour. "You see Fate plays into our
hands," said George, taking those of Dorothy in his own. And then the
conversation became quite private and very, very confidential.
Meantime, Mrs. Ward was seated in a chair facing Lord Derrington. The
old gentleman looked savage, but Mrs. Ward was quite at her ease. They
had been having a war of words, and Mrs. Ward so far had come off
best. The conversation had been in reference to the sentence whispered
in the little woman's ear when he had made her promise to hold her
tongue about George.
"Of course I do think it is the meanest thing a man can do," said Mrs.
Ward, bitterly. "What if I did cheat at cards? Every woman does that,
and I was losing no end of money."
"I don't think your friends would take that view," said Derrington,
grimly. "I came to hear of the matter quite by chance, and it is plain
that you won over a hundred pounds by cheating."
"It's that horrid Mrs. Wayflete who told you----"
"No. If Mrs. Wayflete knows, she has held her tongue. I learned it
from a source of which you are ignorant. But the fact remains, you
cheated, and if your friends knew it you would be ostracized by all of
them."
"As if they did not do these things themselves," retorted Mrs. Ward;
"but since you have been so nasty, I intend to be nasty, too."
"I shouldn't advise you to be nasty to me, Mrs. Ward. I have a large
reserve fund of strength."
"You'll need it all to hold your own against me." Lord Derrington
nodded. "I quite admit that you are a dangerous woman," he said
quietly.
"Well, and in what way have you made up your mind to be nasty?"
Mrs. Ward laughed. "You needn't repeat my adjectives," she said in her
most frivolous manner. "If you want to know the way in which I intend
to protect myself----"
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean this," cried the little woman, growing angry all at once. "I
am not going to be threatened about that unfortunate episode connected
with the cards--it was that horrid Mrs. Wayflete who told you, so
don't deny it--I am not going to be threatened without holding my own.
Besides, I want Dorothy to marry your grandson."
"Which one?" asked Derrington, coolly.
"You have only Walter Vane."
"Excuse me, George Brendon, whether there is a marriage or not, is
equally my grandson."
"I believe you admire him."
"Very much, and it is in my mind to acknowledge him as my heir."
"I thought as much after your sticking up for him the other day," said
Mrs. Ward, furiously. "Now, look here, Lord Derrington. If Dorothy
marries that Brendon creature I won't be able to do a thing with
her--you know quite well I won't."
"That means you won't be able to handle my money through George after
I am dead," said Derrington, grimly.
"You can put it that way if you like. But Walter shall be Dorothy's
husband, I have made up my mind."
"Because he's a fool and putty in your hands."
"I shouldn't be vulgar if I were you," said Mrs. Ward, in a dignified
manner, and quite forgetting that she had once used the same
illustration herself in connection with Brendon. "But so long as
George leaves Dorothy alone I shall say nothing."
"That's really very good of you, Mrs. Ward."
"Your being nasty won't make me change my mind. But you quite
understand the situation, Lord Derrington. Walter is to marry my
daughter, and George is to be kept away."
"I don't see how he is to be kept away. I assure you Brendon is a
strong man, and his will is quite equal to mine."
"Nonsense, you have the strongest will in London."
"And you come here to try and break it."
"Life is a game," said Mrs. Ward, leaning back, with a pretty air of
philosophy. "And at present I hold the trump card."
"What is it?" asked Derrington, wondering by what means she hoped to
make him consent to her demands.
"I'll tell you presently," said Mrs. Ward, in a most masterful tone,
which amused Derrington. "But you understand that if George Brendon
doesn't keep away I shall give information to the police and have him
arrested in connection with that murder."
"Oh, no, you won't," said Derrington, good-humoredly.
"Oh, yes, I shall. As to your accusation about my having cheated, you
shall say nothing about that."
"Indeed, I shall do so if you trouble Brendon."
"Think of Dorothy."
"I do think of Dorothy, and I'm very sorry she has such a mother."
"You dare to insult me," began Mrs. Ward, when Derrington, who was
losing patience, cut her short.
"I've had enough of this," he said sharply. "You shall hold your
tongue about Brendon or I'll tell what I know."
"Then I'll do the same."
Derrington bowed politely. "By all means," he said. "My reputation is
already so bad that a word or two from you can scarcely make it
worse."
"Oh, it's more than that," said Mrs. Ward, quietly, and she spoke in
so positive a manner that Derrington began to recollect his worst
sins. "Do you remember the night you came home here at one o'clock and
found me in this very room?"
"Yes. You came with the amiable intention of telling me that George
Brendon was going to pass the night at Mrs. Jersey's, and that you
suspected that he was up to mischief."
"I took the trouble to come from a party for that very purpose," was
Mrs. Ward's plaintive reply, "and how was I received?"
"I told you to mind your own business, if I remember."
"And you swore at me," said the little woman; "as if a man who calls
himself a gentleman----"
"Mrs. Ward, I am getting tired of this circumlocution. What is it you
have to say?"
"Well, on that night you were in a fir coat."
"My usual coat in winter."
"It was the night when Mrs. Jersey was killed."
"Was it, indeed? I never noticed the coincidence."
"No. But you knew about it," said Mrs. Ward; "you threw your coat on
yonder sofa. I seated myself near it by chance. There was something
hard in the pocket of the coat. When you were out of the room I took
the something out. There it is," and she laid an Italian stiletto on
the table.
"What is that?" asked Derrington, calmly, but with an anxious face.
"That," said Mrs. Ward, touching it daintily with her finger, "is the
weapon with which Mrs. Jersey was stabbed."